Beautiful Lies
by XXAlmostInsaneXX
Summary: A terrible series of deaths all over the world act as prelude to the most dangerous takeover the world has ever seen. Could the world's only consulting detective return from beyond the grave to save the world in time?
1. Chapter 1

**Beautiful Lies. **

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: I own nothing.<br>Warnings: none for now, contains some strong language, but then what doesn't? :)**

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><p>Chapter 1: Enervated.<p>

Rain pounded the road as the limousine parked right in front of the large manor. A uniformed chauffeur got out, opened an umbrella and walked around to open the back door. The man who got out was dressed impeccably, in a crisp three piece suit, tailored to fit him like a glove. He nodded at the chauffeur who followed him a few paces behind, holding the umbrella to shield him from the rain. Both man and servant walked up the marble steps and the door to the manor opened before they had reached it. No surprise there, he had to be expecting them; sending the limo and all that.

The chauffeur remained outside as a butler took care of his coat and hat and directed him silently towards the hall. The passageway was ornately yet tastefully decorated with a few well-placed paintings, original the man had no doubt, and a bronze bust of an ancestor probably standing in a corner. As soon as he entered the hall, his attention was drawn to the man standing right in the middle. Well into his fifties, the man had a distinguished air around him accentuated by his salt and pepper hai cut military style and half rimmed glasses. The man, who had just entered, summed up all his courage and briskly walked up to the other, extending an arm.

"You must be the infamous Aionian?" he asked, though it wasn't really a question.

"One of them, yes." The man replied, his voice a baritone, soft and elegant.

"As much as it saddens me to say so, I must decline your offer." The man was trying very hard to appear calm and collected.

"Yes well, that really should sadden you." Aionian replied, revealing a pistol. "As it should sadden your family."

Two shots were heard, and the butler signaled the chauffeur to drive the limousine away.

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><p>"It's all lies, John. They were right…I'm a fraud."<p>

"No, Sherlock. Why, why are you saying that?"

"NO, Please no, don't…"

"Goodbye John. Goodbye."

"No!" He jerked awake with the shout on his lips. The scene of Sher- of _him_, with tears streaming down his face, standing forlornly right at the edge of the building before stepping forward still played through his mind like a broken record, over and over again, relentlessly. Blood covering his face, blood which seeped into the cracks of the pavement, blood which had no business being anywhere other than inside him and try as he might, he just couldn't shake the feeling of being _there_.

He untangled himself from the bed sheets, and got out of bed with shaky leg, limping his way out of the room and into the kitchen. . Anyone looking at him would be able to see the not yet dried tear streaks on his face and come to the conclusion that he had been having a nightmare, but a certain someone would, after throwing a casual glance at him would deduce from the hunched shoulders and slow gait that he hadn't been able to sleep; from his unwillingness to go back to sleep, that the nightmare was a recurring one, and from his shivering… _what the hell was he thinking? _He gripped the handle of the mug tightly, closing his eyes, willing himself to think of anything, of any_one_, but _him_.

Heaving a weary sigh, he abandoned all thoughts of making tea, and quickly got dressed, wanting only to get out of the flat as quickly as possible. It was early, not yet five in the morning, but he could go for a run and then make his way to the clinic. Anywhere was better than _here_.

Three hours later fund him sitting at his desk in his small but neat office.

"Good morning doctor." Sarah's voice filtered through his half asleep mind, jerking him wide awake.

"Yea, hi." He grunted, not wanting to bother with the usual pleasantries. For once she took the hint and after giving him a sad look went on with her own business. He ran a hand through his hair and sat up straighter, disgusted with her for pitying him, with himself for allowing it. He didn't need their pity, their incessant phone calls, their impromptu visits and their sorrowful _looks_. Well Lestrade had been the first to get the clear message: after he had hung up on him on his third phone call in two days the DI had got the fact that he just wanted to be _left alone._ No wonder even _he_ had had some respect for Lestrade: the man at least had some sense in him. But Mrs. Hudson and Sarah, they were harder to shake off. What was it with women and their desire to coddle everyone within sight? It had been three months and he was sick and tired of Mrs. Hudson acting delicately around him or Sarah shooting him worried glances when she thought he wasn't looking. It was like as if they thought he was made of bloody _china_, and they were waiting for him to shatter any moment. Well, he wouldn't. It wasn't like as if he hadn't had someone close to him die before, he had been a soldier dammit! Death was a normal part of his life. At least that's what he kept telling himself, enough times a day, hoping that if he kept repeating it, the lie would become a truth…like another big lie that had been chanted into becoming the truth, that _he_ was a fraud.

John shook his head, a sad ghost of a smile on his lips, as he stuck a thermometer into a wriggling infant's mouth to take his temperature. That _idiot_ had tried to make him believe the lie too. Him, John Watson, who had _seen_ him at his work, prancing about like an arrogant drama queen in that ridiculous 15th century coat of his, shouting orders and jumping around crime scenes, making fun of every authoritative figure and blatantly breaking rules. John was no consulting detective, but he wasn't an idiot either. He knew a genius when he saw one and he refused to believe, along with the whole damn world that the best man he had known, the best friend who had changed his life, was a fake.

The thermometer in his left hand started trembling and it took a minute for him to realize that he was having the tremors again, and he shifted it to his right before clenching and unclenching his left. Scribbling a prescription down, he shot an empty smile at the mother and grabbed his coat as she left his office. He needed air; he just needed to get away.

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><p>The park was, for once, quite. There were not many people around, the only ones being the mothers who were playing with their toddlers on the swings. John sat down at the bench farthest from the playground, and therefore the noise. Nothing had changed. Life seems to go about as usual, children playing, mothers worrying, patients showing up sick at the clinic. Even the crimes seemed to continue, as if the criminals of the world were unaware that the man who reveled in tracking them, chasing them and catching them, was… gone. Had stepped off a roof in fact, if he hadn't been the one to hear the 'suicide note' he would have thought the fool was trying another experiment, trying to defy gravity itself. A hollow chuckle broke out, as he discreetly wiped the tear that was threatening to fall with his thumb.<p>

"Enjoying the sunshine, Doctor Watson?" a voice, refined and cultured and so unlike _his_, broke his introspection. An elegant man, tall and well appareled in a three piece, most probably some foreign designer's suit.

"What the hell are you doing here?" John almost snarled, having no wish to even look at the older Holmes, the _brother_ who had sold out his own blood.

"Come now Doctor, there's no need to be so harsh." Mycroft seemed like as if he had expected the outburst. Which on second thought he probably had. He was as good at reading people as _he_ had been at noticing details.

"I've got work to do…at the clinic." John muttered, starting to get up, just wanting to get away from the repulsive man.

"John, please…" the softly spoken request made him stop.

"What do you want?" he gave in, turning towards the taller man.

"I came here to tell you something, to show you something." Mycroft started, and hurried to finish, noticing the doctor's wary look. "It's about Sherlock."

"What about She-" John cleared his throat, looking away. "What about him?"

""I had been receiving several threats from some people lately, threats I didn't reply to." Mycroft paused, drawing in a long breathe. He held out a folder towards John. "Threats I had ignored until this came in today morning."

John took the folder and flipped it open. Staring back at him was a 8x10 snap shot of _him_. Those cheekbones, the collar pulled up, -must be acting cool again, John thought smugly. He was squinting at something and the angle of the photo suggested that he had been unaware of the photographer. John glanced at the rest of the items in the folder: There were around eight to ten pictures of Sherlock, all from surveillance cameras it seemed, probably the work of Mycroft's men before… well before three months. He was about to demand an explanation, when his eyes fell to the small printed date depicting the time the photo was taken. The date was that of yesterday.

His mouth went dry as his brain fought to make sense of this. There must have been a mistake. The photo must be a fake. He went through all of them again, noticing that they were from different angles of the same place. Not fake then. Maybe it was a misprint… maybe, no, no that wasn't possible.

'How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, _however improbable_, must be the truth?' The words sounding in his ears, _his_ words, and the evidence in front of his eyes both were proof of the fact that _he_ was… alive. John clenched his hands, still holding the folder, to stop the rapid tremors, and looked up at Mycroft.

"This was the first page." Mycroft said, holding out another page to him.

**Sherlock Holmes.  
>2432- XXX Street,<br>Paris, London. **

"The people, who had been threatening me, sought him out in order to get me to respond." Mycroft cleared his throat. "Doctor, if this is to be believed, and I had the photos tested, they aren't fake; then my brother is well and alive, and currently residing in Paris."

"Alive?" John repeated, his mind not processing what his ears were hearing. "I checked his pulse, he was- he didn't have a pulse! This is not funny at all Mycroft!" He couldn't stop the tears from welling up in his eyes, hating himself all the more for appearing weak.

"Why on earth would I joke about such a thing John?" Mycroft's eyes bore into his as he searched for any hint that he was lying to him in them. "I was as surprised to find this, as you are now. I had no idea-…" John glared at him disbelievingly- "I swear it!"

"Alright, if he's alive, then why didn't you contact him yet?" John still couldn't wrap his head around the whole thing. The whole thing had to be a sham, a deception, a trick. That was the only possible explanation. Someone knew of Mycroft being his brother and was fooling Mycroft with false threats of harming a person already _dead_. Unless Mycroft had contacted him, he wouldn't believe it.

"Well, to be honest, I was rather hoping he would have contacted you…" Mycroft trailed off at John's incredulous look. "But I see I'm mistaken, in which case there would be a very good reason he hasn't done so yet."

"So you mean you didn't have any idea if this was true, and you came to me to confirm whether it was or not?" John could not believe this man.

"Well you and he were close, so it was only a logical assumption…" Mycroft looked around, suddenly uncomfortable. "Listen, whoever is behind this would find out if my people would try to get near him, so you find a way to do so. And hurry up; if this isn't a sham, then he could be in grave danger."

John didn't know what to say. How was he supposed to contact him? But Mycroft had already started to walk away. "Oh and listen, be careful John." He called back, before hurrying away.

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><p>Staring at the photos in his hand, John numbly walked to his flat at Baker's Street. Was this possible? Could he really been alive? If he was then why hadn't he gotten in touch with him? Unless it meant that he believed that John too had started to doubt him and would have nothing to do with him. Or maybe he just didn't play that important a part in his life… He banged his fist on the table. This did not make sense! It was a bloody lie; some freak who thought it would be funny to play with his heart was doing this to him! He won't believe this. It was too painful…<p>

"_Hurry up; if this isn't a sham, he could be in grave danger." _Mycroft's voice sounded in his ears. He ran a hand through his brown almost greying hair.

Making up his mind, he powered up his laptop. If this was true, then the only safe way to get to _him_ would be through his blog. He wouldn't ignore a message sent by _his blogger_ now, would he?

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><p>So that's chapter one. I would love to know what you think, its been quite a while since I've posted and I'm not sure venturing into the Sherlock world is entirely a smart idea. So please read and review!<p> 


	2. Chapter 2: Resurgence

Thank you for all the favorites and alerts. It would be nicer and would really make my day if you people also dropped a word on what you thought of the story...  
>Disclaimer: I own nothing... doesn't stop me from wishing I did.<br>Warnings: Moody John, (He's entitled I think.. :P )

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><p>Chapter 2: Resurgence.<p>

"Should I be looking for a replacement, doctor?" Sarah's voice filtered through the haze clouding his mind, and he jerked his eyes away from the laptop screen.

"What? I mean why?" John stared at her questioningly, confused.

"You keep staring at your laptop. Are you expecting another job offer?" Sarah gestured towards where he had his laptop powered up on the table right beside the reports he was working on. Supposed to be working on at least. He hadn't really done much other than stare at his latest post:

**The Destruction of Rome.  
>Romulus realizes where he was wrong. Now will Remus come to his rescue before Rome burns to the ground?<strong>

It was his attempt to subtly contact _him_. And yet it had been two days and except a few confused comments of his usual followers, there had been no reply. John sighed and rubbed his eyes.

"No, Sarah, no." he sighed. "It's nothing important."

"Well it has to be," she smiled, making John groan inwardly. She really didn't know how to take the hint, did she? "The John Watson I knew would never waste time on trivial matters."

"Well I am not that John Watson, am I?" It had come out a little harsher than he had intended, and three months before he would have apologized for the sudden outburst, but he just didn't give a damn now. Anything would do, as long as it drives _them_ away.

Sure enough, Sarah gave him a disapproving frown and made her way out of his office, probably to worry about him in her own. He turned back towards the computer, hoping against all hopes that there would be a message waiting.

"Goddamit!" he snapped the laptop shut and got up from the chair, in one fluid motion. Walking towards the window he stared outside. There wasn't much to look at really, just some trees and the parking way. Not like his view back at the flat. _Why hadn't he replied?_ It had to be a trick of some sort, that really was it. Some twisted freak thinking it would be fun to play with John's heart. Actually Mycroft fit that description to the dot. Or maybe _he_ really was alive and wanted nothing to do with John, thinking that he too believed, like the rest of the world that he was a fraud. Or maybe, a smug voice sounding all too familiar suggested in his head, he was too busy giggling at John's miserable excuse of a coded message to actually be coherent enough to reply. A smile tugged at his lips, now he was hearing voices in his head. Great, simply great. A knock at his door announced the arrival of his next appointment.

"Come in." he called over his shoulder, walking to the adjacent toilet to wash his face, in the hopes of being a little more awake while dealing with a patient. "I'll be out in a moment" he called out before closing the toilet door and leaning against it.

Looking at himself in the mirror, he sighed. He looked worse than he had done on some days out at the battlefield. Gaunt eyes, pale color, dark circles so dark, it looked like as if he had received a punch on both eyes; he really did need some sleep. Rubbing his face dry, he walked out of the toilet and halted.

Disbelieving grey eyes met startling blue ones. Grey eyes took in the pale color, even sharper cheekbones, and even thinner frame covered with that coat. Blue eyes noticed the hunched shoulders, the limp, the two days old clothes, the day old shave, and finally the tired, weary, surprised grey eyes.

"Well John, aren't you going to ask me to sit down?" Sherlock Holmes cocked his head at him, and gave him a small smile.

"Uhh, have a seat," John managed to get out before sinking into his own chair. "You look…alive," he finished lamely.

"Ah yes, can't say the same about you, though" Sherlock replied, eyes boring into his, while taking the seat opposite from his across the desk. "You look ghastly, has Mrs. Hudson stopped feeding you?"

"You're one to talk, I see you're still wearing that ridiculous coat." John didn't even have to think, before the words were out of his mouth.

"I've told you, it adds to the mystery." Sherlock shot back just as quickly, before clearing his throat and looking away.

"I presume you got my message then?" John asked, mind still reeling, not daring to look away, in case this turned out to be a very lucid hallucination. If he was going crazy, he might as well enjoy it.

The snort that followed his question, however was so _him_ that his imagination could never have matched it. That did it. Something snapped inside John and all the sleepless nights and nightmares took hold as he pushed back the chair, stood up, walked around the table, and smacked the man; _that idiot_, right in the face.

"Oi! What was that for?" Sherlock cried out, getting to his feet and rubbing his face, which was turning a satisfactory red.

"That, you git," John growled, fighting the urge to hit that infuriating face again, just so he could touch him and feel the satisfaction of warm skin under his hand. "Was for pretending to be _bloody dead_!"

Sherlock still rubbing his jaw looked at him incredulously. "You do realize, I _had_ to do that? Moriarty had…"

"Bollocks! You didn't _have to_ hide the fact that you're alive from _me_!" John couldn't help the increasing volume, his eyes were threatening to tear up again and he turned his back on _him_. He won't let him see him cry, not give him the satisfaction…

"I'm going to go back home." _Home_, how strange the word sounded, yet how correct. "Fancy coming along?" he walked to the coat stand at the corner and grabbed his coat from the hook, refusing to look at him standing in the middle of the room.

The cab ride home was tense with the awkward silence. Sherlock seemed perfectly at ease, humming some god forsaken tune under his breathe. John however kept darting glances at him from the corner of his eye.

"John, I'm not a ghost!" Sherlock snapped after he had sneaked a look at him for the fifth time. "I'm not going to disappear, you know."

"Forgive me for being a little skeptic." John muttered darkly. "I did think you were dead for the past three months." He was actually surprised at the bitterness in his voice. The last two days, ever since Mycroft's visit, he had not allowed himself to believe that he was alive, lest it turned out to be false. And now, when he sat beside him, proof of his own existence, he couldn't feel anything but a raw feeling of anger and betrayal at the man whom he had once called his best friend… and maybe something more.

Before Sherlock could come up with an answer to his rebuke, the cab pulled up at 221B Baker Street, and John, after throwing a couple of notes to the cabbie, got out and headed for the door.

Sherlock sighed, and followed his friend and partner inside.

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><p>Penny for your thoughts? I won't actually be paying you, you know but it would be nice if you indulge me a bit... :)<p> 


	3. Chapter 3: Homecoming

**Thank you for the favorites and alerts people, they mean a lot to me.**

**Disclaimer: I still don't own the delectable Sherlock Holmes or the adorable John Watson... sigh! **  
><strong>Warnings: Language, violence (?) Nothing major... yet. ;)<strong> 

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><p>Homecoming.<p>

Baker Street looked the same as usual. Well three months wasn't a very long time to bring about a lot of change. Sherlock still noticed the slight weight the waitress at Speedy's Café had put on, the woman walking her dog seemed to be a new face, and the knocker at house number 222 had been changed. Nothing much had changed; Sherlock determined as he waited patiently behind John who was opening the door to his-_their_ flat. Now if only that could be said about John as well.

Until now Sherlock had been able to deduce a number of things from John's appearance and manner and none of them were favorable. He had lost weight, 5 kg's in fact, given up on taking care of his appearance, (the repeated attire and grown stubble were evidence of that), had taken up drinking, (the slight tremor was now rarely absent, which meant John's nerves were continually working up), had been experiencing sleepless nights, (the bags under the eyes and the tired hunched shoulders pointed that out), and was Very Angry with him (the punch was enough proof of that, thank you very much.) That last bit had surprised Sherlock the most: he had expected John to be a little frustrated, but resorting to violence was something John didn't do unless he was extremely brassed off; and then too he had a very high tolerance level when it was Sherlock on the receiving end. Suffice to say, he, Sherlock Holmes, hadn't seen that one coming. And then that prat did know how to throw a punch. His jaw was still throbbing, and he rubbed at it unconsciously, noticing John look at him from the corner of his eyes and sigh, shoulders sagging as if exhausted. Or disappointed? …no, he must be tired, long day at the clinic probably, from the smell of disinfectant still coming from him.

John finally managed to get the door open and turned back towards him, holding open the door. Ah, the doctor, always a perfect gentleman. Sherlock gave him a smile which caused him to look away, (surprising that), and walked inside. Once they were both standing at the landing, John turned to him and finally met his eyes, about to say something. But then he shook his head as if changing his mind, and called out, "Mrs. Hudson, come out here for a moment, would you?"

"What is it John dear? That shoulder of yours troubling you aga-" The homely woman stopped mid-sentence as she took in the sight of her formerly dead lodger, standing at the foot of the stairs. She gaped at him for a second before smiling from ear to ear and grabbing him in a hug.

"Oh Sherlock dear, how nice of you to turn up alright!" She could barely contain her happiness. "You look so terribly thin, but then I take it, dying can do that to a person."  
>Sherlock smiled at the old lady's exuberance. So like her to take his turning up alive and well into stride. He had always known her to be a woman who could put up with almost anything, having met her when he was just twenty five and she- was desperate to get rid of her husband; but this even exceeded his expectations.<p>

John watched Mrs. Hudson fuss over Sherlock with a frown. Seriously, that lady was as unpredictable as the ghastly man she was coddling over at the moment. Didn't she feel the anger at being betrayed, lied to, and _left alone_? Or was he the one being petty and immature about this whole matter? But when on closing his eyes he pictured Sherlock's tearful face and broken goodbye as he launched himself off the roof, he shook away such thoughts grimly. The man had let him believe that he was _dead_; he was entitled to a little pettiness. He pushed past the two, and made his way upstairs.

Sherlock had only half a mind on Mrs. Hudson's questioning. The rest was occupied in observing John. He seemed disappointed… at Mrs. Hudson, for… accepting him so quickly? Yes, considering his own reluctance to do so, that made sense. He hushed the excited lady in his arms, and nodding to her determination at fattening him up, he excused himself and followed John up the stairs.

When he reached the landing of their flat, John was standing in the middle of the living room, the noticeably cleaner living room, though his cluttered books and Skull were still present, and looking around.

"Uh, your room is still…" John started but then trailed off as their eyes met, as if he forgot what he was about to say. Then shaking his head and looking away, he continued. "It's still yours, I mean… I didn't move anything, if you want it that is."

"Of course I want it." Sherlock said, confused that John should even ask.

"Yea well, just curious if you're going to pull a disappearing act again." John muttered under his breathe, fully aware that Sherlock could hear him perfectly. He walked away into the kitchen.

"So, what was it that was so important that Remus had to prevent?" Sherlock called out flopping down on his chair. "I hope that Rome isn't really burning, I can't actually stop that you know."

"Yes, about that, just so I know…"John said suddenly emerging from the kitchen and coming a few feet into the room before stopping right in front of him, though not within hitting distance, Sherlock made sure of that. "If it hadn't been for that message, you wouldn't have contacted me, would you?"

Sherlock looked at him, curiously. The question seemed less of an inquiry and more of an accusation. Didn't John understand that he couldn't have contacted him any sooner, that it was actually dangerous for John that he was here even now? "No, I wouldn't have, John." He said, wanting him to see the logic behind that decision instead of just being emotional. Did he think it had been easy for him?

John couldn't believe it. The man had just admitted to not giving a damn about either him or anyone else in his own life. He wouldn't have bothered to come had he not sent that desperate message. And here he was spending three months, thinking that perhaps he should have told him how he had felt about him, that perhaps he felt the same away. Bile rose in his throat, as waves of disappointment coursed through him. He just couldn't take it anymore. Turning on his heel, he went out of the door and down the stairs as fast as he could, and slammed the door on his way out.

Sherlock hadn't even had time to blink. One moment John had been towering above him, wanting answers, the next he was rocketing down the stairs and out the door, after throwing him that look. Sherlock cringed as his brain searched and found a label for the look in John's eyes: disgust.  
>No matter how often Sherlock tried to stay aloof of the people around him, not allowing himself to <em>care<em>, telling himself that he _couldn't_ understand emotions, that he was a sociopath; there were still those who fought through all the barriers he had so early in his youth constructed around his heart, and worm their way in. John had been one of those few. He had stuck by, marveling at those habits of his which disgusted the others, accepting those traits of his personality that drove others away, and staying when everyone else left him; refusing to condemn him, to believe that he was a fraud, when he himself had doubted his genius. Never had he managed to drive John away, Dear John who had a heart and tolerance level rivaling that of Mother Teresa herself, who put up with the heads in the fridge, with being experimented on within an inch of his life, with being arrested and made into a fugitive all for his sake; until today. Today, John had been appalled at him, not because of what he had done, but because of what he hadn't. Did he think that this was all easy for him; didn't he know how difficult walking away from him that day in the graveyard, after witnessing his anguish at his supposed death had been, what it had done to Sherlock? Did he think walking away from his whole life didn't matter? Sherlock flopped down on the sofa, tired of pacing the room. Really John was usually so perceptive of people's emotions and stuff like what they were feeling, was it possible that he couldn't see Sherlock's? Or maybe he really wasn't happy on seeing him return; maybe he had grown accustomed to living without a nosy, annoying peculiar flat mate.

His contemplations were disturbed by a knock on the door. "Woo hoo, boys." Mrs. Hudson called out, coming in bearing a tray laden with sandwiches and drinks. "Oh dear, have you two had a little domestic, that too so soon?" she sighed, setting the tray on the corner table. "Sherlock you really must not trouble him so. He was so heart broken when… you know when you were _away_."

That got Sherlock's attention and he sat up, motioning for Mrs. Hudson to come and sit beside him. "Oh, he was, wasn't he?" he prompted her.

"Ooh yes! Refused to sleep or eat for three days straight! Just sat in his chair, moping and staring melancholy at yours. You should have seen him, his state of undress was even worse than how you used to get after days without any activity." It seemed like as If Mrs. Hudson had been waiting anxiously to tell this to someone, Sherlock noted with a small smile. However the picture she was painting did not agree with his latest theory that John wasn't happy to see him, actually it suggested quite the opposite. He tuned in to what the old lady was saying again. "…he seemed to awake from his trance on the fourth day when I suggested cleaning out your room. Dear me, he jumped up and started shouting about how I am not to touch or remove anything, before collapsing back into his chair from exhaustion. Really it wasn't until a whole month and then some days before he could be bothered to go to work and some days after that before he started eat and sleep like regular people." Ah she was wrong there, John hadn't started to act normal, otherwise there wouldn't have been dark circles around his eyes and he wouldn't have lost weight; which left the possibility that John had learned to put up appearances of getting on with his life so that the people around him would leave him alone. Right, she was still talking, god that lady could talk a lot:"…good thing you came when you did, didn't know if he would have gone on much longer, oh look at me going on and on about things! You must be so tired, you look so pale, get some rest would you dear, and don't worry about the dear doctor; he would be back after he had enough alcohol in him to help him pass out." Mrs. Hudson gave him a quick peck on the forehead before walking out.

So Sherlock had been right: John had started drinking; and that too heavily for even Mrs. Hudson to notice. Well, all these things were really not painting a very nice picture of the Doctor's mental state. He needed to get to him and talk some sense into him. He smiled smugly: this is what John must always have felt like, worrying about _his_ mental state. Well he could return the favor for once. He fished out his phone and dialed the oh-so-familiar number his fingers knew by heart. He held the phone to his ear and waited for the phone to ring.

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><p>John didn't know what he was doing here, drinking his brains out. Wasn't that an activity he reserved for the evenings he thought his best friend was dead? Knowing that he was alive and well, probably bored out of his mind at the flat, he couldn't understand the anger and hurt that refused to let go of him. Really he wasn't one to hold grudges. Doctor John Watson was the first man who would forget, forgive and move on, the least resentful man he himself had ever come across. Then why the sudden urge to hit a certain someone hard, right across the face, again and again and again, until that infuriating smirk and those sharp cheekbones were reduced to a pulp. Doctor John Watson wasn't a violent man at all, no sir, no ma'am.<br>He sighed and downed the fifth shot of the evening. How _dare_ that bastard, that asshole say that he wouldn't have tried to contact him if he hadn't initiated it first? How was he supposed to know that the idiot was still alive? He ran a hand through his hair, and made up his mind. He would let Sherlock explain, and then decide whether to sock him again or not. Though admittedly he hadn't really meant to hit him so hard, not that he hadn't deserved it.

He left the money for the drinks on the counter and walked out slowly from the bar, head buzzing from the copious amounts of alcohol in his system. He stood outside for a moment just breathing, hoping to clear his head, when his phone rang. Fishing it out of his pocket, he stared at the unknown number before picking up.

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><p>"Good Evening, You've reached Doctor Watson, who's this?" Sherlock smirked at the slight slur in John's voice; the doctor really couldn't hold his drink as well as he prided himself on.<p>

"Hi, John it's me." Sherlock paused, the sharp intake of breathe at the other end confusing him for a second, before the realization dawning upon him: it must be quite some time since he had called John. "Yes, well umm… Mrs. Hudson was wondering when you will come back home. She's… getting quite worried about you." He finished lamely, waiting for some sarcastic reply.

"Sherlock, I-…" the voice cut off rather abruptly and a clatter sounded, like as if the phone had been dropped to the ground. Sherlock's mind reeled as his brain placed the sound he had heard before the line had died- that of a silenced bullet hitting its target.

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><p>And that's it for now, I'll try to update sooner, though word of caution: Reviews make me write faster. :P<p> 


	4. Chapter 4: Rebuttal

_Sorry for the cliff hanger guys, and thanks for the alerts and favorites. Usual disclaimers apply. _

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><p>Rebuttal.<p>

Sherlock's mind wheeled as his fingers dialed the second most familiar numbers. Jon had been gone for three hours; he had been angry when he had left, John always walks off his frustration; it had been cold, he wasn't wearing a coat when he left. All those facts coupled with the fact that John's voice was slurred enough to guarantee 160 minutes at a bar; which meant that John had walked within a radius of half a mile. But there were six bars in that distance and John hadn't been a habitual alcoholic when he had known him three months ago, so he wasn't aware of his most frequented bar… wait! That phone call! That street performer playing the hideous guitar in the background!

"Hello, yes Lestrade, it's me Sherlock. Get to Folk's Bar as soon as you can. Bring an ambulance as well. John's hurt." He hung up before Lestrade could reply, knowing he would obey, and sprinted down the stairs.

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><p>It had been a long day. Two murders, both in different corners of the city, and Lestrade had had to manage both of them. It seemed like as if the higher ups were still pissed off at his screw up three months ago. One of them had been quite a simple open and shut case of drunken man hitting and killing his wife; the other however was truly grotesque: two children strangled to death and both parents missing. Lestrade had just been on his way home, not that he could call it 'home' anymore; his wife having stormed out on him, when he had demanded to know who the PE trainer was, no thanks to a certain <em>someone<em> there—when he had gotten the call. _What the hell had __**that**__ been?_ _Sherlock_? Wasn't he supposed to be _dead_? And yet he could recognize that infuriating voice anywhere.

He dialed Sally's number and relayed the address and instruction to get an ambulance to her, though not telling her anything about Sherlock or John being involved, and steered his car around.

It couldn't have been a prank, that phone call, unless there was someone out there who had a personal vendetta against Lestrade and an uncanny ability to imitate Sherlock's voice: an unlikely combination, and also anyone who had something against Lestrade would have an even bigger something against Sherlock.  
>So the only possible explanation of all of the facts was that Sherlock really had called him and he was alive. Hopefully. Though, if what he had said about John being hurt, then Lestrade really won't put calling from six feet under the ground to come to John's aid, past Sherlock. No matter how much he had appeared to be aloof and a general pain in the ass, it was evident that Sherlock had a soft spot for the doctor. And there had been many a bets lost and won at the office, when Doctor Watson's misery at his 'friend's' death had become apparent. It would do wonders for the doctor if Sherlock turned out to be alright. If he turned out to be alright that is. Lestrade was rather hoping that this was a false alarm of some sort and Sherlock was being his usual paranoid self, where the doctor was concerned.<p>

That was why when he pulled up right in front of the bar three minutes later he was alarmed to find the thin lanky man knelt on the sidewalk, in front of a still form. He got out of the car and rushed over, shouting at the paramedics who had just arrived to bring a stretcher. He came to a halt where the doctor lay bleeding and Sherlock trying to staunch the blood gushing from the wound, while cradling John's head in his lap and murmuring softly to him.

"The level of the wound suggests the bullet was shot from a sniper from the right. Look for construction sites in that direction from where the sniper could have taken his shot. He might not have gone far yet." Sherlock said quietly, not tearing his gaze away from John's face. When Lestrade didn't reply, he glanced at him sharply, "Go, for God's sake, Lestrade!" His voice was so full of anguish and his tear streaked face so wild that Lestrade was taken aback. He had rarely seen Sherlock lose his cool like this; hell, had it not been John who had been shot, he wouldn't have been instructing the police, but chasing after the shooter himself, eager to join in the game.

Lestrade quickly instructed his men to construct a perimeter in the general direction Sherlock had pointed out to him, and search for anyone in construction sites or empty buildings; just as the paramedics loaded John onto a stretcher and wheeled him into the ambulance. Out of the corner of his eye Lestrade saw Sherlock arguing with one of the interns and after directing the last of his men, he jogged over to sort out the problem.

"It's ok, he's family of the wounded, let him ride in the back." He ordered the young man, whom Sherlock had been busy chewing out. Sherlock threw him an almost grateful look and hurried over to the ambulance.

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><p>Sergeant Sally Donovan watched the figure in front of her pace around the corridor. What Lestrade had been thinking, assigning her the duty of accompanying the ambulance to the hospital, she really had no idea. What she did know however, was that she was probably the least favorite person in the detective's books right now. He didn't seem to be too intent on her however; actually he hadn't noticed her at all. Or knowing him, he probably had noticed her, along with what she ate last night and where she spent the night, but didn't find it worth his time to acknowledge her.<p>

It had been a normal day so far, dead woman, and then dead children. Was it too much to ask for the night to end, without any of the dead people showing up _alive_? He wasn't even supposed to be here. And now that he was, weren't they going to arrest him? He had 'died' a fugitive after all, how did him turning out to be miraculously alive change the fact that he was psychopath? But apparently Lestrade had turned all big brother mode as soon as he had seen the doctor hurt and telling her to 'stuff her protests for later' and just follow the ambulance so she could take care of police procedure at the hospital. It really was bugging how much Lestrade valued _him_ over his own task force.

But looking at him now, Sally couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt: he looked like hell. Hair standing on ends, eyes bloodshot and red, face tear streaked, thin frame shivering. The doctor had been rushed into the ICU as soon as the ambulance had reached the hospital, and since then two hours had passed. There was still no word from inside, Doctor Watson had lost a lot of blood on the short journey here, and had stopped breathing once for around 30 seconds.  
>Sally heaved a sigh of relief when she saw Lestrade making his way through the almost empty corridor towards where she was standing. She stood up to talk to him, but at his subtle head shake resumed her seat<em>. Of course. <em>

Lestrade went straight to where Sherlock was standing, leaning against the wall.  
>"Hey, how are you holding up?" He said, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. God, he was trembling!<br>"Yes?" Sherlock looked at him, surprised, as if he hadn't heard the question. "I'm fine, fine, I'm alright." He said a moment later before Lestrade could repeat himself.  
>"Here take this; you'll freeze to death in that state." Lestrade took off his overcoat and held it out to Sherlock who looked at it for a second; confused, before quietly accepting it.<br>"The bullet hit him on the left side of the chest, considering the fact that the doctors haven't yet been out, it must've missed the heart. But his heart stopped beating for 26 seconds in the ambulance, which coupled with the amount of blood he has lost, leaves 30% probability that he'll make it. Also…" Sherlock's quite rambling was cut off when Lestrade gripped both his arms tightly and forced him to look at him.  
>"He is going to be okay, Sherlock. Have some faith, he's a soldier, he will pull through." Lestrade assured him, seeing not the arrogant detective he was used to in Sherlock's eyes; but the insecure, unsure teenager he had once known, who had thrown up and cried in his arms as he had gone through withdrawal from the drugs he had so been addicted to.<p>

Sherlock searched his eyes for signs that he was lying and finding none, subtly nodded his head in silent gratitude, before standing straight. "Did you get to the shooter?" He asked.

"Yes, he was walking away from the first empty building my boys searched and started running when they told him to stop. They gave chase and tackled him down." Lestrade replied, grateful for the change in topic.

"Well? Who is he? What did he say? Sherlock asked, an almost dangerous glint in his eyes.

"Couldn't fish much out of him, he was too busy biting the cyanide pill he had hidden in his mouth." Lestrade had expected the detective to be disappointed at this news; not being able to question the shooter himself and getting to the end of things, but he was surprised to see Sherlock's shoulder's sag a little as a relived sigh escaped his lips.

"You'll find that he was one Sebastian Moran, disgraced soldier and renowned marksman, freelance killer hired by Moriarty." Sherlock informed him, his head tilted upwards, back against the wall and eyes closed.

"Moriarty? You mean…"

"What I mean is that Moriarty had arranged for three assassins to target John, Mrs. Hudson and you if I didn't kill myself that day. That surviving that fall didn't eliminate that threat and I couldn't resurface until it was completely gone." Sherlock's tone was sharp and biting as if he had said all what he was saying many times before, probably to himself while staring in the mirror.

"So this was the last assassin? Moran was hired to kill John?" Lestrade asked quietly, wondering at the fact that Moriarty had thought Sherlock cared enough about him to place a hit on his head too in order to make him give up his own life. Well, Sherlock had kind of gone through with the whole thing… maybe Moriarty wasn't that off track.

"Yes, and it's my fault that John is on a surgeon's table right now, instead of in bed!" Sherlock broke out suddenly, making Lestrade jump. "I knew I should have stayed away…" he trailed off, staring at the ground.

"Sherlock, you didn't pull that trigger, Moran did." Lestrade reminded him, hoping to sooth some of his agony and guilt. "And Moriarty ordered him to do that, not you." he finished.

"Oh so you're finally admitting that Moriarty really was behind this?" Sherlock suddenly pushed him away and stared at him, furious. "What happened to the whole 'Sherlock Holmes paid Richard Brooks to be Moriarty' theory you were so intent on believing back then?" He was practically shouting now.

"Sherlock, please calm down!" Lestrade said, not raising his voice, yet using his about-to-lose-patience tone, the only one Sherlock was known to listen to. "I had known that Moriarty would try something like this, Mycroft…" Lestrade paused at the instant scowl which had formed on Sherlock's face at the mention of his brother, before continuing. "Mycroft had warned me that something was going to happen, and I needed to see that you were safe. Thus the warrant and arrest, Sherlock. I was hoping Moriarty won't be able to get to you behind bars."

Sherlock's keen blue eyes searched his as he went over what Lestrade had just said, till finally accepting it as the truth, he looked away. Before he could say anything however, the door to the operation theater opened and a doctor came out.

"Family of John Watson." He called out after checking the clipboard in his hands. Sherlock was standing right in front of him a moment later with Lestrade just a few feet away.

"What? What is it Doctor? What happened?" he fired question after question at the doctor, (age fifty four, hasn't slept for three nights, seen three patients die today, none of them recent.)  
>"Sherlock." Lestrade's voice broke in through his mental deductions and he focused on what the man was saying.<p>

"Yes, the bullet missed the heart by three centimeters, but nicked a major artery which had led to a lot of blood loss. However, it's out now, and his condition is stable." The doctor informed Sherlock, feeling just a tiny bit uncomfortable under the intense scrutinizing gaze of the man in front of him.

"Can we see him?" Lestrade questioned when Sherlock just kept staring at the doctor.

"Yes, but one at a time please, he is unconscious now. Morphine induced sleep, it'll help him to heal." The doctor replied, walking away.

Anyone else wouldn't have noticed, but Lestrade had known the man too long to not do so: the slight sagging of the shoulders, the smoothing of the tiny worry lines at the corner of his eyes, the release of tension from the whole body and the slight upward curl of the mouth; all evidence of Sherlock relief. Lestrade took the man by the elbow and directed him towards the room the doctor had told them John had been shifted in. "Go on, you go first. John will want to see you. I'll be here outside."

Sherlock straightened the coat wrapped around his shoulders and ran a hand through his hair before making his way down the corridor.

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><p><strong><em>Well that's it for now, I'll be back with more soon. Tell me what you think?<em>**


	5. Chapter 5: Domesticities

Domesticities.

Three days, thirteen hours, fifty minutes and sixteen seconds had passed. Seventeen. His own sweet time, that's when the doctor had said John would wake up. However he had to admit, the prolonged sleep was doing him some good: his face didn't look tired and haggard anymore, some of the color had returned to his cheeks, though he was steadily losing weight; what with being on a drip for the past three days.  
>Sherlock stirred in his chair, he had been sitting in it for the past three days; though that wasn't entirely a new feat for him. According to John his limit of staying motionless in a single place was five days and six hours at the end of which, after he had slipped into unconsciousness, John had carried him to bed and inserted glucose in him through a drip. There had been hell to pay after that: John had been furious, going on and on about body mechanism and how he wasn't a machine as he liked to believe but a mere human who needed food and sleep. Sherlock had had to endure through two meals a day under his personal doctor's sharp gaze for a whole week. A soft smile tugged at his lips as he remembered the quarrels he and John had had during that case. It had taken ages to get to the bottom of that mystery…<p>

"Reminiscing now, are we?"  
>Sherlock didn't bother to look up at the figure that had just entered. "What are you doing here, Mycroft?"<br>"I heard about the doctor getting shot." Mycroft was dressed as impeccably as usual: very unlikely that he had rushed to see how John was doing as soon as he had heard; also it had been three days.  
>"I wasn't aware in the time I was away; John had managed to become a person of national interest." Sherlock quipped, really not in the mood to deal with his brother right now.<br>"Oh, don't get jealous. I won't steal him away just yet."  
>"Won't I love to see you try."<p>

"Ugh, girls please…" John's voice was weak and hoarse from disuse. Sherlock immediately directed all his attention back to him, he was squinting his eyes, probably not accustomed to the light and was trying to sit up; no he shouldn't be doing that, that would hurt a lot. He placed a hand on John's either arm and held him down. John understood and lay back staring at first Sherlock and then Mycroft, a frown on his face. Sherlock looked around for the glass of ice chips a nurse had brought along and set on the bedside table earlier, in case he woke up. Giving John a spoonful, he got busy adjusting his cushion in such a way that he was propped up halfway, though not enough to disturb his stiches. John had been watching him work the whole time with a small smile and thanked him once he was seated in his chair again.  
>"Really both of you are enough to wake up a dead man." John said, still looking and smiling at Sherlock.<p>

Mycroft cleared his throat. "So Doctor, how did you end up here?" The question was addressed to John, but both of them knew it was meant for Sherlock. John, being well versed in how Mycroft's mind worked, simply raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Sherlock himself.  
>"The hit man who shot you was Sebastian Moran, one of the three Moriarty had hired to kill you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, and the only one whom I hadn't dealt with." Sherlock said quietly.<br>"Had? Past tense?" John prompted.  
>"Yes, when Lestrade's men tried to apprehend it, he committed suicide by breaking the cyanide pill in his mouth." Sherlock told him, still refusing to meet his eyes.<br>"So, he was the reason you were staying away… that you didn't-" John broke off, exhausted from the effort.  
>"Yes, I had to made sure there were no threats remaining before I resurfaced." Sherlock's voice carried an unusual intensity which made John look at him. He met his eyes this time, his eyes pleading with him to understand, and John felt a pang of guilt course through him. He had been thinking that Sherlock didn't care for any of them, when he had been eliminating threats against their lives. It was John who broke eye contact and looked away this time, a strange lump forming in his throat.<p>

"Ah, sentiment. What have I always told you Sherlock?" Mycroft startled both the men; they had almost forgotten he was there. "No worse weakness than that. If you had been smart enough to not let your heart rule your head. Completely usele-"  
>He broke off abruptly as Sherlock stood up suddenly. "I think you've overstayed your welcome Mycroft." His voice was low and…angry. Mycroft had had his brother been irritated with him, frustrated with him, whine at him, quarrel with him, and even shout at him. But he had never heard that tone before. He nodded to John and walked away, confused and curious. It seemed that he had struck a chord with his little brother… Ah, of course, John!<p>

"Don't you think that was a bit harsh?" John asked, once the older Holmes was outside the room and the younger was seated again.  
>"For whom, Mycroft?" Sherlock looked at him incredulously. "Have you met him? He had skin thicker than a rhino's." John smiled at the indignant tone, which seemed to pacify the agitated man a little.<br>"So, you 'took care' of the threats, eh?" John asked, and Sherlock looked at him surprised. "A little James Bond-esque, don't you reckon?" he grinned.  
>"Oh well, I've got the physique, you've got to admit."<br>"Ya right, the only James Bond you can audition for is the starved, tortured one." John grinned at the scowl on the younger man's face.

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><p>"I can manage on my own Sherlock…" John muttered, though contradictory to his own statement he did not shrug off the hand around his waist, as Sherlock helped him get up the stairs leading to their flat. Three days cooped up in a hospital room with nothing to do, had proved enough to make even Doctor John Watson to lose his patience. He had signed the release paper with gusto, yet it seemed his side was still hurting him, judging from the rate he had been climbing up the stairs before Sherlock had intervened. When they finally reached their flat, he settled down in his sofa with a relieved and tired sigh.<p>

"I'll order some takeout." Sherlock suggested, "Chinese?"  
>"Yes, that's fine. Thank you." John replied, hiding, probably unsuccessfully he was aware of that, his surprise from Sherlock at him acting so nice to him for once.<br>"Oh, don't look like that," Sherlock snapped after clicking the phone shut. "It's not every day that you get shot, so you might as well enjoy it while it lasts." He grumbled, throwing himself on the chair opposite to where John was sitting. _His_ chair. The chair John had stared at all these months, hoping for him to come and sprawl himself on it, just as he had done a minute ago. A strange feeling of desperation gripped John, nothing was certain. Sherlock had died, and he himself had almost died as soon as he had turned out to be alive. It seemed like God didn't want them to be together, in any sense of the word.

"What's on your mind?" Sherlock asked suddenly, startling John out of his brooding.  
>"Uh, nothing important." John said, blushing slightly and hating himself for it. Of course the insufferable idiot would notice that<em>, what was wrong with him? <em>  
>"Not true," Sherlock stated and at John's raised eyebrows, drew a deep breathe, and John rolled his eyes. "You are chewing the inside of your cheek, which you do when you're worried about something, or rather someone as it usually is Harry on your mind, but the slight frown is absent which automatically forms whenever you think of her. Net possibility is that you're thinking about your days as a soldier, but your hand isn't trembling, actually you've got your hands clenched together, probably in a subconscious gesture of praying, and you've got that look in your eye, the look which you get only when you're writing your blog, or in other words writing about me. That and the fact that you blushed when I asked what you're thinking, proves that it was indeed me on your mind. So the only possible explanation of all these facts is that you're wondering if our co-existence is somehow jinxed considering the fact that as soon as I turned up at your doorstep, you got shot." Sherlock ended his deductive monologue with an enthusiastic grin.<br>"God, I can't believe I actually missed your ravings." John said, smiling and feeling a little less gloomy. Sherlock smiled back in return, a glint in his eye. The doctor wasn't having any morbid thoughts now.

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><p><em>Alright so thing is I was having a conflict with myself over whether to make Sherlock and John a couple or not. That is until I read Steven Moffat's interview about season 3. He said that in the upcoming season they are going to tackle things that no other adaptation of Sherlock Holmes have done before. But then when asked what these things would be, he talks about showing how John Watson balances married life with Sherlock's cases, and how the duo cope with <strong>not<strong> living together. _  
><em>That got me thinking: <em>  
><em>i) Why would Moffat talk about showing us something different and unique and then in the next breathe talk about the same things which the previous two Guy Ritchie movies have already covered, quite spectacularly might I add. <em>  
><em>ii) Also this is the guy who didn't tell us there would be a third season until the last episode was aired so that the viewers could remain tensed until the very last scene throughout TRF. I don't know about you people, but when he says 'married Watson' I think of the complete opposite: a John Watson and Sherlock Holmes who are outright gay. <em>  
><em>iii) This is after all a modern version of Sherlock Holmes. Moffat has the lenient laws of 21st century England to play around with, as opposed to Guy Ritchie who was stuck in a time when such relationships were illegal. <em>

_So my brilliant conclusion was that this turned out to be slash... Nothing explicit however, I don't even **know** how to right that. But to anyone who might not agree with me, I am sorry but I really am having too much fun with this now. :P_  
><em>Also feel free to drop in a word about my deductions up there if you agreedisagree with my theory. And reviews are of course LOVE :)_


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